


serendipitous

by arexnna



Series: ways back [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Or really whatever you want, Post Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arexnna/pseuds/arexnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bucky’s remembering, natasha’s helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	serendipitous

She’s put on babysitting duty while Steve runs off on a mission. Natasha’s more upset over the prospect of having Steve chosen over her for said mission, rather than being left with Barnes, but she’ll make do anyway. Steve had been so adamant on what to do and what not to do that it really did begin to feel like a babysitting gig.

He’s busying himself in the other room with some prototype that Tony’s been working on, having unwillingly let Barnes trial run it. _Boys and their gadgets_.

“What do you want for dinner?” she yells out, her voice echoing through the excessive space Stark had provided them with.

“Whatever’s easiest,” he replies.

“I’m not cooking so everything’s easy.”

He appears from his room, amused look on his face as he walks towards her – even barefoot in his loose sweatpants, there still remains a methodical feel to how he walks, something so innate that even he probably doesn’t realise, likely rooted back to his days in the army.

“What’ve we got?” he asks as he leans on the kitchen counter next to her, eyes fixing on the site she scrolls up and down on.

She suggests a couple of joints – Thai, Mexican, Chinese – but eventually he decides on sushi, and with no complaints from her end, half an hour later, half empty plastic trays are left littered around them while they laze in the living room flipping through whatever’s on Netflix.

They’re three episodes into _That ‘70s Show_ , a _‘that’s not how I remember the seventies’_ right on Natasha’s lips when he suddenly says:

“Have we done this before?”

“Yeah, totally.”

“ _Nat_ ,” he prods, managing to grab her attention properly this time. When she turns towards him, his brows fall into a serious frown. “ _Really –_ have we?”

She pauses the show, but even without the background noise, she can barely get a proper read on him.

“No,” she finally answers, “We haven’t.”

Unsatisfied, he shakes his head, his too-long locks of hair fall into a messier state when he does. “Something- something feels _familiar_.”

“Look – Barnes,” Natasha starts. She never calls him Bucky – the name feels too foreign for her, almost as wrong as the name _James_ tastes on her tongue now after everything. “When I told you about _us_ – I wasn’t pressuring you into remembering me. I’m not trying to force our history onto our rela— _friendship_ now.”

_Everything tastes wrong on her tongue._

“No- I’m serious. This whole thing,” he waves about with his metal hand, the one that’s not preoccupied with his chopsticks, “we’ve _done_ this before.”

“I- Well,” she means to dispute him, but when her mind jumps to old memories, the ones repressed, the ones altered and messed with, and then rediscovered, she amends. A flash of them in the dodgy flat _they’_ d allowed for him to stay in, spooning almost-expired beans out of cans as they sit cross legged facing each other, plays before her. “Well, not exactly this – but- we certainly weren’t eating sushi in Soviet Russia, and we definitely weren’t watching TV.”

And just like that, the frown relaxes, and a smile plays at the edge of his lips. He nods slowly, this proud look on his face with his puffed out chest, that one look that smiles _‘I’m remembering’._

Then he turns back to the screen, nods his head towards it, and with an extra put on bossy tone, he says, “C’mon – put the show back on, Romanov.”

-/-

He almost gets her. _Almost_.

After all, he is the Winter Soldier.

But he fails to remember, she is _the Black Widow_.

After that brush of his fist by her jaw, she manages to duck out of the way of his second hit, sidestepping out of the way before she grabs at his arms, twists and—

_Thud._

“Jeez, Nat,” he chides from his spot on the ground, but there’s no heat to his words, not when he’s lying on his back staring up at her with the biggest grin on his face _._

She only rolls her eyes, offering him a hand to pull him up.

“You’ve _definitely_ done that before,” he smiles, looking awfully happy for someone who has just gotten his ass beat.

“More times than I can count, Barnes.”

-/-

“Sit still.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mocks a salute, “ _Ow!_ ” he groans when she smacks the back of his head for moving.

“You don’t want a bald spot, now do you?” Natasha scolds as she pushes the shaver up the back of his head.

“No ma’am.”

She can tell he has that shit-eating grin on his face by the way he taps his fingers excitedly on his knee, but for a minute or two, they’re only accompanied by the sound of the whirring of the shaver.

“Have we—?”

“Yeah,” Natasha answers, “But before, I’d use an actual razor – none of this fancy crap,” she waves the thing to no one in particular.

He’s been remembering more and more lately. Small things really, like things she says _(“You used to say that a lot, right?” “In my defence, you_ were _an ‘idiot’ a lot.”),_ or things he’d do ( _He didn’t have to say it, but the smile on his face and that spark in his eye when he’d reached in and wiped blood off her cheek was enough to tell her he remembered it too),_ but the happiness that stretches over his face make these small things feel _big_.

Their _friendship_ is at an odd place right now. She catches herself sometimes, when the innuendo gets too heaty, she takes a step back and remembers that things aren’t quite as they used to be. Sure, it hurts that she can’t just reach over and pull his lips to hers, or that she can’t run her fingers over the plane of his back like she used to, but circumstance has made things as they are. Though with him beginning to find all their memories again, it complicates things even more.

They’re in this awkward limbo between _friends and partners in battle,_ and _more than friends and partners in everything_. It’s odd when she remembers every bit of their history – every kiss, every touch, every desperate _I love you_ – but he’s just beginning to regain himself again. She knows that he _likes_ her, but his crush for her is incomparable to what they were before, and if they were to fall into a relationship of sorts, she’d want both of them to be on equal footing on matters of _feelings_.

“Well?” His voice drags her from her thoughts. “How’s it look?”

She shakes herself out from her own head, barely even realising that she’s done.

“Looks good.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and when she holds a mirror before him, “ _Yeah_.”

She’s prouder than she really expects to be, but to give herself credit, she did a pretty good job. Natasha dusts the short stray hairs from the back of his neck, and even in those short moments of contact his skin feels soft, feels warm, feels _familiar_.

He looks _good_ , she admires at her work. Not that he wasn’t working the long haired look, but the new ‘do makes her think of the _James_ she knew, the trim hair that doesn’t allow how him to let it curtain his face.

He pushes himself up once she pulls the towel from his shoulders, chucking it to the corner of the bathroom.

And then, just as casual as Steve, or Clint, or Sam would, he swoops in and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Nat,” he shines the dopiest smile at her, calling out, “Spar in fifteen?” as he leaves, barely waiting for her reply by the time his figure disappears.

But him leaning in to kiss her hardly _feels_ as casual as it would with Steve, or Clint, or Sam, and like some clichéd romance novel, she finds herself tracing that skin his lips had touched.

-/-

“ _Shit.”_

He’s apologising profusely, more than she really needs, but it’s entertaining to watch him fuss over such a minute thing. At her smallest flinch he’d gone into apologetic mode, hands fumbling as he tries for ways to soothe her.

She’s gone through way worse than a bullet lodged in her shoulder, what with torture being just another everyday work misstep, but Barnes is worrying over her like she’s on her last lifeline.

She’ll never admit it, but it’s nice.

“You okay?”

“I-“ she wants to berate him, chide at him for thinking she can’t handle a simple bullet wound, but the concern etched onto his brow, the way it frowns as he looks at her, she can’t find it in herself to be a wiseass. “It’s not too bad. Just pull it out and it’ll heal in a day or two.”

That helps calm him. He nods, reaching back for the tweezer and just as she’s about to tell him that she’ll be okay, there’s a sharp piercing in her shoulder—

“ _Fuck.”_

He shines a bashful grin at her, the one that, with his shrug, tells her he isn’t really that sorry. A _clink_ follows as he drops the bloodied bullet in onto the metal tray. “Let’s get this cleaned up.” He takes her hand to replace his that presses pressure against her wound as he moves to get the needle, thread and the gauze.

He’s gentle and careful as he threads the needle through her skin. It barely hurts her by now, too used to this to really feel it, but the care he shows makes it pain near extinct.  

“You used to squirm more.”

“I was weak then,” she shrugs lightly with her uninjured shoulder, but he takes it as anything but light when his hands stop working at her wound.

“You were anything but weak, Natalia – you have to know that, you never were.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t remember it all.”

“I’m remember _ing_.”

It triggers something in her – the warmth she’d felt from his earlier actions dissipating.

“ _Yeah_? Well, you don’t remember it all, do you?”

He pulls away, stepping back for his face to come into her view without her having turn. “Hey,” he pleads, “Nat – you’ve been pulling away from me this whole mission. What’s—“

“Let’s not get into this right now,” she interrupts. “You done?” she asks, not waiting for an answer before she reaches for the scissors and cuts the hanging thread off anyway. “We should get ready for bed.”

She barely sees the hurt on his face before she’s in the bathroom, door closed shut between them.

She’s being cold, that she knows – but he’s _remembering_ a lot more now, and with that comes the progression of their relationship, and she’s _not_ ready for that. She’s been on her own for long enough that she’s gotten too used to it, too used to coming home to an empty house, to an empty bed, save for the feline that comes in and out of her place as it pleases.

Natasha loves him – that’s as clear as day. And she thinks he _thinks_ he loves her, but she’s not _ready_.

She washes off the blood from her skin, scrubbing mercilessly at her arm for the red to run to the drain, splashes water on her face, rubbing at the crimson that stains there too. Maybe if she scrubs at herself enough, the anxiety of it all will wash away with the dirt and the grime.

She comes out to an empty motel room, a single note laying on her bed that reads: _Out for a walk. Be back in a bit. Get some sleep. – J._

So she does. She tries, at least. Tossing and turning in bed (though skilfully avoiding her left arm), eyes watching at the light under the door, watching for his shadow to appear.

He finally comes back just under an hour later, his hair a dishevelled mess on his head as he pulls off his gloves, shrugs off his coat meticulously trying to keep the noise at a minimum.

“ _Hey,”_ she whispers, making her consciousness clear.

“Oh – thought you were asleep,” he replies, toeing his boots off before he pads his way to the space between their beds.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah, yeah, me too.”

He turns around pulling his Henley off, the muscles of his back stretching as his arms move, and even in the dim of the outside light, there’s a lot for her to appreciate. He shucks his jeans off too, leaving him shirtless in only his boxers, and just as he seems to move to settle into his bed, she says,

“I’m cold.”

“You can have my—“ he starts, halting when he sees how she holds open her duvet as invitation for him. “Oh.”

Hesitantly, he pads towards her, slides under the covers and wraps his arms around her waist.

He must know that it was all a ploy, that she’s really not feeling cold, simply craving his body behind hers. It’s his feet that feel like ice, his toes cool as it grazes against her calves while he searches for a spot to settle.

“Better?” he asks, breath hot against her ear.

Content in his arms, she nods a reply.

“How’s your shoulder?” he presses a kiss just by the gauze that covers the scar when he asks.

“Better,” she smiles to herself. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she sucks up her pride. “I get like that when I get scared.”

He shakes his head to her apology. “Don’t worry about it – I get I was forcing me remembering onto you and- I get if you don’t want to move too quickly. I just- I _like_ you, Nat. More than that probably,” he confesses, his arm squeezes at her waist at his admission.

“It’s mutual,” she replies.

“Yeah?” James asks, his head peaks out from the corner of her view as he shifts up to look at her.

Natasha nods her head, lips quirking at the corners when she nods, her eyes holding his in the dark of the room.

He leans slowly, slow enough to give her time to turn away if she wanted to. She sees the question in his eyes, the look that dissipates when she pushes herself up the slightest to meet his lips halfway. Their kiss is gentle and far too slow for it to be labelled passionate. His lips are soft, his kiss careful, the taste of his mouth a sugary sweet against the fresh mint of hers.

He’s the one to pull away, her lips following his for as far as she can. When she finally opens her eyes, she finds him gazing down at her, his stare as soft as his kiss was.

It wasn’t sexual – more romantic, more an acknowledgement of their feelings for one another, opposed to their tiptoeing around the other. It’s their second first kiss, and it shouldn’t feel like a lot, but it’s a much bolder step than she’d thought it’d be.

“Goodnight, Natalia,” he smiles, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear, the backs of his fingers grazing her cheek as he does.

He settles back behind her, his hand resting against her waist, his thumb rubbing circles at the sliver of skin that’s bare between her pyjama bottoms and the hem of her tank.

“Goodnight, James,” she mutters back, and she can just feel his smile at _his_ name on her lips.

-/-

The first ( _but not really first_ ) time they fall into bed together, it’s after an especially gruelling mission, the type of mission where the good guys don’t win and the bad guys get away, the both of them mostly looking for a way to release the pent up anger from their failed task. It’s rushed and hard, and they barely even make it to the bed, the two of them taking turns at being pressed against any sort of flat surface. It isn’t sweet, nothing near beautiful, not when their sweat slicked bodies are rutting furiously against the other’s, the taste of dried blood from the mission still strong on their tongues, not when he leaves bruises on her skin by her waist where he holds her, or when trails of red, raw skin is left in the wake of her fingernails on his back.

By the time they do make it to the bed, they’re more than sated and more than boneless, Natasha’s bare body slumped over James’ heaving chest, his heart beating a staccato against her ear, his right hand playing at the ends of her hair, hers tracing over his abs.

“This,” he starts, his voice breathy, the picture of a man worn out, “I definitely remember us doing a lot of.”

She slaps at his stomach, but there’s no force in it, not when the grin on her face refuses to stop growing. His laugh shakes his whole body, the sound of it reverberating in her ear. She feels his lips press against the crown of her head, the sweetness of the act a stark contrast to what took place earlier.

They’re tired and disappointed from the mission, but lying here in his arms, her mind blurs it all out, only allowing for her to focus on the here and now.

Natasha’s eyes are heavy, drooping from, if not the mission, then their little workout after. But just as she’s on the brink of sleep, just as her eyes fall shut, he whispers, “I remember you being more flexible though. Old age getting to you, I see.”

One thing she hates about James, is that he knows exactly what to say to rile her up, and that’s exactly what he does.

He’s pinned under her within the second, his hands pressed into the mattress by each side of his head, that pretty smirk of his playing on his lips telling her that she’s given him just what he wants.

“I remember you being able to last longer. Old age—“

Her back lands in the mattress with a muted thud, their roles reversed as he hovers on top of her, clearly challenged by her words if his eyes are any indication to go by. One point for him, two points for her.

Because just as much as he knows just how to rile her up, she knows equally well what makes him tick.

-/-

“Are you in love with me-“

“I-“

“-or are you in love with our memories?”

The question has been plaguing her since they started this _relationship,_ eating away at every time he’d bring up little quirks of hers that he’d suddenly remember.

“Because I’m not the same _Natalia_ you helped train, you know? Not the girl who needed to practice speaking English with you. Between then and now, I’ve- a _lot_ has happened, I’ve _changed_. Things have been _done_ to me, _I’ve_ done things to others. I’m just- I’m not the same girl you first fell in love with.”

Finally, she takes a breath, the thought had been itching to come out for so long that once she’d started, she couldn’t quite stop.

He stares at her, considering her for a moment, trying to get a read on her.

“Nat, I—“

“And I’ve been wondering the same about my feelings for you too. I mean, I _know_ I love you, but do I love the memories more than I love you _now_? Because that _can’t_ be, can it? How could I possibly love the memories of never being allowed _together_ more than I love you now? So, I _know_ I love _you_ – but do _you?”_

But instead of him replying her question, all he does is grin like a fool before he blurts out an unbelieving, _“You love me?”_

She should feel offended he even needs to ask, but she isn’t. This is their second first _I love you_ and as unromantic as it came out, it is a huge step for the both of them.

“You really think I’d put up with you if I didn’t?”

It only makes him smile wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he does. “You love me,” he repeats.

“ _Yeah_ , and this is the part where you say…”

“ _Natalia_ , of _course_ I love you. Of course I’m _in love_ with _you_. Remembering _us_ is just a bonus, but what I first fell for was _you_. You stand in front of me with all your strength, and intelligence and _heart_ and you really didn’t expect me to love you?” he asks rhetorically. She doesn’t want to show the smile that forms on her lips at his words, but she can’t quite stop herself. “And if we’re talking about _change,_ I’m very much not the man Natalia loved, you know that more than anyone. I love the memories, but I’m in love with _you_ ,” he says again. “Okay?”

Her lips curl upwards, “Okay.” She’s the one to lean in, presses her forehead against his, her smile pressed to his kiss, slow, languid, and so full of _love_.

“We didn’t—“

“We didn’t say that a lot then, no,” she finishes for him. “I don’t think we had the privilege.”

“Well,” James starts, a hint of a smile on his lips, “we weren’t given a do-over to just do everything the same, were we?”

She bites at smile that’s grows, shaking her head against him.

“No, I guess we weren’t.”

-/-


End file.
